


The Average Lifespan of a Western Honeybee

by notyouranswer (gorgeouschaos)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bees, Gen, One Shot, Post-Purgatory Dean Winchester, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, disordered eating patterns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:40:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26682343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gorgeouschaos/pseuds/notyouranswer
Summary: Time moves faster in Purgatory.Cas measures time in the lifespans of bees.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 10
Kudos: 41





	The Average Lifespan of a Western Honeybee

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for: PTSD (implied), some vague violence, and disordered eating patterns/eating disorder not otherwise specified.  
> Feel free to ask if you'd like more information.  
> Thanks for reading, hope you like it, and I love hearing from y'all!

Time blurs, when all you can think about is survival. It slips sideways. 

Dean doesn’t pay it much attention. He gives up on trying to count the days pretty quickly. The small changes in the gradients of grey light aren’t enough to keep track and he has no reason to, anyway.

Sam will get him out. Either that or Sam did what he was supposed to and moved on, leaving Dean down here forever. So it doesn’t matter how long Dean’s been in Purgatory. 

Benny doesn’t know how long either of them has been down there, either. 

Still, it’s kind of a shock when he and Benny find Cas and Cas’ first words are, “It’s been three hundred and nine lifespans of a Western honeybee.”

Dean just kind of… stares. 

Benny’s the one who thinks to ask, “What’s the lifespan of a Western honeybee?”

“One hundred and thirty seven days,” Cas says. “On average.”

Math’s never been Dean’s strong suit-- Sam was always the smart one-- but he has plenty of time to figure it out as they head for a portal that may or may not exist.

Three hundred sixty five days in a year. Roughly three honeybees a year. 

One hundred and three years. 

Dean stops walking to throw up. It’s a waste of hard-won food, but he can’t help it.

One hundred and three years.

Benny hisses in disgust and alarm. “Dean?”

Dean doesn’t answer. He’s too busy making eye contact with Cas, who nods very slightly.

_ Fuck _ .

Dean tries to pay attention after that. It’s hard. 

He gives up again after he hits three years. 

What’s the point? 

They get out. Well. Benny and Dean get out.

Cas doesn’t. 

Dean walks and doesn’t think about how many honeybees' lives it would take to get you to eternity.

Sam doesn’t think to ask how long it was. He should know better, after a year in Hell. He should know better, after everything. 

Isn’t that always how it is, though? Dean comes back from a dozen wars alive and Sam, for all his genius, just assumes that’s how it’ll always be. 

Sam, even with his giant brain, doesn’t know the average lifespan of a Western honeybee.

Kevin’s terrified of Dean. Dean would have felt bad about that, once. Now he just smiles and watches the kid flinch. 

The prophet has better sense than Sam and Garth, apparently. 

Mrs. Tran stubbornly refuses to be intimidated by Dean. She looks him over, eyes lingering on the sharp points of his wrists, and she forces him to eat a full meal of pot roast. 

Dean throws it up in the hotel bathroom half an hour later. Sam’s lips are pinched when Dean emerges wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, but he doesn’t say anything.

Dean checks his brother’s search history while Sam sleeps. It’s full of searches about eating disorders and healthy diets. 

Dean doesn’t know how to tell Sam that it’s not about weight. It’s about how seasoning stings and cooked meat sits in his stomach like a rock, about how sugar makes his head spin and carbs make his adrenaline surge. 

Sam tries to feed him burgers, pizza, and pie; Dean either can’t make himself eat it or he bolts it down, makes himself sick, and then can’t eat for days. It takes Sam a while to figure it out, but when he starts bringing back rare steak and unseasoned vegetables, Dean starts eating properly.

It’s been a fifth of a honeybee’s life when Dean talks unprompted.

“I’d have thought you’d be happy I was eating vegetables,” he says, and Sam tears up. 

_ Jesus _ , Dean thinks, but he manages to let Sam hug him. 

Dean can’t sleep on a bed, can’t eat right, can’t sit still, can’t make himself talk, can’t stop recoiling from everything from touch to sound. Sam can’t stop looking concerned, can’t stop trying, can’t stop using his “comfort the victim” voice.

Neither of them could ever stop when it mattered. 

Dean stays up all night pacing. He feels bad for waking Sam up-- Sam’s about as light of a sleeper as they come, besides Dean-- but even the motel carpet is too soft. He can only sleep in the Impala, where he’s just uncomfortable enough to feel normal. Even after however long he spent in Purgatory, his Baby is the one place he’ll always feel safe.

Sam does his best, but after a week, he gets desperate enough to offer Dean alcohol. Dean gets drunk off two beers and wakes up with a knife to Sam’s throat. 

Sam doesn’t try again; when Dean starts sleeping in the parked Impala at night, he doesn’t ask. 

It’s better that way. When Dean jolts awake reaching for Benny like he’d reach for a gun, he doesn’t wake anyone else up. When Dean screams himself into consciousness, nobody calls the cops. 

Dean tells himself he doesn’t miss Sam’s breathing.

Benny calls, sometimes. They don’t talk much when he does. Dean wonders if Benny likes the sound of Dean’s breathing after so long. For his part, Dean finds the silence soothing. 

When Benny and Dean do talk, they talk about everything but Purgatory. They talk about music and cars and pretty women, not survival and blood and Cas. 

It’s a nice distraction. 

Dean wishes the one other person who understood was with him. But he’s not leaving Sam. Not again. 

Not even for someone who knows about honeybees.

The hunts help. Sam keeps Dean in the background when they interview witnesses-- Dean remembers being charming, once, before his smile got so sharp-- and Dean takes the lead on the kills. 

It works, at least until Dean tears out a werewolf’s throat with his teeth and Sam gets all quiet. 

“It worked, didn’t it?” Dean snaps after an hour of silence broken only by the Impala’s motor. 

“How long were you down there?” Sam asks.

Dean’s spent so long dreading the question his throat closes up. That’s been happening less and less since he got back, but after so much silence, it’s still hard for him to talk.

Sam’s grip gradually goes white on the steering wheel-- he’s been driving more so Dean can sleep-- and he repeats his question. “How long were you down there, Dean?”

“Three hundred and twenty lifespans of a Western honeybee,” Dean answers at last, and he closes his eyes as Cas screams in his head. 

**Author's Note:**

> the line "comes back from a dozen wars alive" is from the poem "a horse with greenblue eyes walks on the sun" by Charles Bukowski. It just seemed fitting.


End file.
